


The Art of Romance

by ProseApothecary



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Roommates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-19
Updated: 2018-11-23
Packaged: 2019-08-04 09:27:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 9,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16344203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProseApothecary/pseuds/ProseApothecary
Summary: David might be the most colourful person Patrick's ever met.





	1. Chapter 1

 David’s never really considered claustrophobia to be one of his anxieties. In his tiny dorm room, at least 80% of which is now taken up by bags and boxes, he thinks it might be time to reconsider that.

The door handle turns and David has to move about three bags out of the way.

 

His new roommate steps inside, drops a single backpack on the floor and takes everything in.

“Wow,” he says, and looks to David, as if for an explanation.

“Hi,” says David, a little put out, “look, I’m going to move everything that’s on your bunk, I just need to, like, master the art of folding, or buy some vacuum-seal packs, or possibly start renting a storage unit.”

“My bunk? Did we decide which is which already?”

“Well the ladder is at the top of the bed and I’m not huge on people’s feet being near my face. So I was thinking maybe I could be on the top bunk?”

“Huh. Well, luckily I love people’s feet being near my face.”

“Great.” Growing up with Alexis has honed David’s ability to ignore sarcasm. He goes back to sorting clothes into piles. There are currently about nine.

“There’s a very enterprising student downstairs who’s offering closet organisation services,” his roommate offers. He picks up a boxset from David’s bed-pile. “I didn’t know they made Criterion Collections for romcoms. You couldn’t just have streamed these?”

“Well, then I wouldn’t have had the extended cuts, or director’s commentaries, or behind-the-scenes look at Julia Stiles’ costuming, so…”

“Ah…You know, you can use some of my closet space if you want. I only brought like 3 outfits, so…I think there’s gonna be room.”

“Right,” says David, “the thing is, I don’t really share clothes so-“

“Yeah, no, I was not fishing for that,” says his roommate, eyeing the crocheted lace sweater that is hanging from the bedframe.

“Oh. Well. Thank you, then.”

“Sure. I’m Patrick, by the way.” He extends his arm for a handshake.

“David.”

“Nice to meet you. And your extensive collection of hand creams. Do you want some help with unpacking this?”

“Um. There is an unexpectedly heavy bag of hair products at the bottom of the stairs that I’d kinda given up on.  I don’t know, are you good at carrying things?”

“On it.”

 

Patrick comes back to find David cross-legged, sliding books onto his bookshelf. When he drops the bag next to him, David gives him his first smile yet. Patrick takes it as a sign of encouragement and sits next to him.

He picks up a book from the pile, titled _Under-Eye Bags: The Secrets They Don_ _’t Want You to Know_ and looks at the blurb.

“This is bigger than my business law textbook. And why does it read like a Bill O’Reilly novel? Look, ‘Stay pure. Flush out undesirables. Maintain that youthful glow forever.’ I think you’re being inducted into a cult.”

“Don’t slander Maisie Gray’s skincare compendium like that.”

“Oh my God, this is a series? Is the next one like, _How Your Reptilian Overlords Deal with Scales_?”

“Shockingly, the next one is called _Breakouts: The Secrets They Don_ _’t Want You to Know_ ”.

“Creative. You know that getting rid of these would free up about 50% of your bookshelf space. It’s not like you need them, your skin is fine.”

“Um, my skin is excellent. _Because_ I have Maisie Gray’s skincare compendium.”

Patrick gives him a bemused smile, but he doesn’t push the point

“Right. So are we sorting by genre?” he says, holding it up to a copy of _1984_.

“By size,” says David, rolling his eyes and taking the book from Patrick, “except for textbooks, which are going on the top shelf.”

“So,” says Patrick, holding up _Art Through the Centuries_ , “textbook or leisure?”

“Both. My parents bought it for me one Christmas but it turns out it’s on my required readings list. Kinda lucky.” Very lucky, really, since they can’t really afford three-hundred-dollar textbooks anymore. But Patrick doesn’t need to know that.

“Huh. Same thing happened to me with _Basics of Bookkeeping_.”

David grins at him.

It makes Patrick feel like he’s ticked something off a checklist he didn’t know he had.

“Actually it set me back about two hundred dollars. But the author is my lecturer, so, you know, at least I can thank him personally.”

“You get to meet the author of _Basics of Bookkeeping_? You should ask him to sign your copy.”

 “I don’t know. He’s no Maisie Gray.”

David smiles a little despite himself.

“Well. No one is.”

 

Patrick certainly isn’t. But, as it turns out, he’s not a terrible roommate. They have a week to get settled in before classes start. And apparently Patrick settles in by making an abnormal amount of pancakes. He usually lets David have some, without even instituting some kind of flour levy. And if he notices David cutting slices off the hoagies he gets from the deli, he doesn’t say anything. Really, David thinks, for a business major he’s pretty terrible at turning a profit.

Noone can really live up to David’s standards of order, but compared to his nightmares of roommates leaving shoes on the dining table, Patrick isn’t too bad. David thinks that maybe learning how to vacuum is going to be the biggest drama of his first week at uni.

Life has other plans.


	2. Chapter 2

David’s lying in bed on his laptop and Patrick’s making lunch when they hear 3 knocks at the door, a millisecond’s pause, and another 8 knocks.

Patrick opens the door. Vivien Blake, the slap-happy villain of Sunrise Bay, terror of 4-year-old Patrick’s nightmares, stands before him. Granted, she’s older, and wearing an electric blue wig, and Patrick likes to think that she holds much less fear for him now, 15 years later, but he still feels manifestly unequipped to deal with a celebrity showing up on his doorstep, out of the blue.

“Um. H-Hello...?”

“Is there a David here? Or do I have the wrong room of this labyrinth again?”

David had gotten up from his bed as soon as she started talking, and was looking increasingly murderous as he made his way to the door.

“Hi. What are you doing here?”

“Can’t a mother visit her only son?”

_Oh_. Patrick would say it was the last thing he expected, but, looking at David and Moira gesturing wildly at each other, it was becoming increasingly believable. Still, it was a lot. And if Moira Rose was David’s mother, that meant that his father was-

“You didn’t want to tell me in advance?” asks David, increasingly annoyed.

“Why? Am I interrupting something?” “Oh!” Moira gasps. “A lover’s rendezvous perhaps?”

Is 4-year-old Patrick’s night terror implying that he’s sleeping with her son? He wonders what unique psychological hang-ups _that_ will bring.

David, for his part, makes a sound like he’s dying. “No! No-one’s rendezvous-ing with anyone. This is my roommate, Patrick. I told you about him?”

“Oh, Patrick! Lovely to meet you dear. From your description I thought he’d be taller.”

“Oh my God. Let’s continue this conversation at the café.”

“But I want to see what you’ve done with this modest little…habitat! And look, lunch is already on the stove.”

“That’s Patrick’s.”

David’s never let that stop him before.

“Oh you’re welcome to it,” Patrick offers.

David resigns himself to Moira pushing her way into the room.

Moira surveys the room, holding one hand to her heart and the other on David’s shoulder.

“You’ve made the place habitable. Still, to see a Rose child boxed in like this…”

“Ok,” says David, “it’s really not that big a deal.”

This was news to Patrick, who had listened to David complain about what a big deal it was for the past week. Moira was right though, David had a knack for knowing how to decorate, turning the room from cramped to cosy. Granted, David’s cornucopia of items was the reason it was cramped in the first place, but still. He made it a home.

 

Moira sits at their dining table. “Well something smells delicious.”

Patrick can take a hint. He starts dishing up the spaghetti on the stove.

Moira digs in. “So, what’s it like here? Any charity balls?”

“Well, there was a fundraiser to get rid of all the rats in the courtyard.”

“Except for Rattata,” Patrick says, “everyone’s grown too fond of him.”

“Not everyone,” says David.

Moira looks significantly less hungry.

David redirects the conversation to where it was obviously always intended to go.

“What’s been happening with you?”

Moira gives a long-suffering sigh.

“Still no acting jobs. I used to be their go-to gal! Look at me now David, this Rose is wilting! Even our dear cuisinier Pat isn’t starstruck by the sweetheart of daytime television.”

“Pat _rick_ ,” corrects David.

“Oh, I’m definitely starstruck,” says Patrick, partly out of politeness and partly to see David frown at him.

“Oh Pat,” says Moira, “lacking in verisimilitude but trés charmant nevertheless. No wonder David likes having you around.”

 “No, really,” Patrick assures her, “Vivien Blake terrified me when I was a kid.”

David looks at him incredulously.

Moira holds a hand to her heart “Patrick! What a kind thing to say!” She gets a dreamy look in her eye. “You know Vivien was my first major role. It was a Summer morning and the air was sweet with dew as I made my way to the studio…”

 

When Moira leaves an hour later, Patrick is significantly more knowledgeable about her early acting career.

“So,” says Patrick, “when were you going to mention that your mother is an Emmy-nominated daytime television star?”

“I was hoping it would never come up.”

“Mm. So…your dad is Johnny Rose?”

“Yeah. Why do you-“

“I worked at Rose Video in high school.”

“Oh God. Well if you want to complain about the acting in the instructional videos, my dad’s the one to speak to.”

“No, no,” Patrick chuckles, “I liked working there.”

Patrick remembers the other thing Moira mentioned.

“Oh, and uh, the library’s open 24 hours, so if you ever wanna have guys over for…rendezvous, that’s fine.”

“I _know_ it’s fine.”

“Right. It’s just that you haven’t had _anyone_ over so I thought maybe-”

“Ok,” says David, pitch rising in indignation, “thanks so much for this conversation. Um, I’m gonna stress-nap now though, so I will see you later.”

“You’ve only been awake for two hours.”

“And one of those hours was spent talking to my mother,” David says, walking over to the couch.

“Ok. Enjoy your stress-nap.”

“It’s a _stress_ -nap,” David mutters, curling up with a cushion.


	3. Chapter 3

Being outed as a queer C-list celebrity (probably D-list at this point, if he’s being honest) within a week of meeting his roommate was not in David’s plan. Still, Patrick isn’t acting any differently, (apart from occasionally trying to gauge whether Moira is as terrifying as Vivien), and David’s starting to wonder whether his resolution to engage with as few people as possible is still a good idea.

 

That is, until the day classes start, and Patrick sets his alarm for 7 am, and David is reminded of why people are the worst.

Patrick quite likes getting up early, when the world is fresh and quiet. He’s also excited about the first day of classes. He doesn’t realise he’s started humming as an outlet for nervous energy until David throws his pillow at him.

“I don’t think you thought that through,” Patrick says, holding the pillow up.

“Don’t need it,” murmurs David, awkwardly contorting his arms under his head.

“Right,” says Patrick, landing the pillow on David’s face. “Well I’m off. See you this afternoon.”

David groans something in response.

 

Patrick gets to class ten minutes early. Most people are not that punctual, including a wild-eyed girl who comes in half an hour later. She sits next to Patrick, at the back of the hall. She drops eight pens onto the desk. Patrick catches three that roll off and hands them back to her.

“Turn to page eighty-four of your textbooks,” drones the voice from the front.

The class interloper rummages through her backpack, piling refuse onto her desk before resignedly giving up with a “Well, fuck.”

Patrick slides his textbook between them

“Thanks. It’s…been a morning.”

“Did you blow the school supplies budget on pens and-” Patrick looks at the pile on her desk “-is that…a gin flask?”

“Actually, I bought everything I needed and put in a super-helpful pile on my desk at home…including…paper. Shit.”

Patrick wordlessly rips out some pages from his notebook and hands them over.

“Thanks. Just so you know, I’m not one of those business students that becomes a Forbes List CEO, so you know, don’t get your hopes up. This isn’t gonna become an ‘I lent Bill Gates a textbook’ kinda anecdote.”

“I don’t know. I see a bright future for you as a Bic spokesperson.”

“Are you gonna be a Bill Gates? Because it would be great if the anecdote worked out for one of us.”

“Yeah I don’t think so. I don’t really know but…I like the idea of working for a small business.”

“Ugh. So neither of us is gonna be rich or influential. We really fucked up networking, huh?”

“Well, you already got some free paper out of this interaction. I know the keeper of the pens. If anything, we’re ahead of the game.”

“And yet I don’t know your name. So I’d say we’re pretty shit at this.”

“Patrick.”

“Stevie.”

“So, Stevie, why _are_ you taking this course, if not to become a billionaire CEO?”

“So…I inherited a motel. And I don’t really know how to own a motel. So…I’m here. The course hasn’t reached the section specifically dedicated to owning a motel yet, but I’m sure it’s coming.”

“Wow. Ok.”

 

David and Stevie definitely _look_ the same age as him, but between David’s vague comments about having hosted charity balls in Tanzania and Stevie _owning a motel_ , Patrick’s not certain that he isn’t making friends with fresh-faced seniors. It would explain a lot, actually. They’re both a little lacking in memory, hand-eye coordination, and the energy to get through the day. David has more crochet and lace than his grandmothers combined, and he’s pretty sure his grandpa owns the exact plaid shirt that Stevie is wearing. Given that he’s also witnessed David banging a broom against their wall, attempting in vain to stop German EDM wafting through, the word “crotchety” springs to mind.

 

Unsurprising then, that as soon as they leave the lecture Patrick gets to experience the one of the joys of senior care.

“David? Why are you here? Don’t you have class?”

“Yeah, I do. I’m guessing that this is not Studio 6A?”

“Ok,” says Stevie, “luckily for you, I walked past it while getting lost on my way here. Just keep walking down that pathway and it’s on your right.”

“Thank you, kind stranger,” David responds, rushing down the path.

 

Stevie turns to Patrick. “You made a rich friend on your first day? You are actually good at networking.”

“He’s my roommate.”

“Why is he sharing a room? He dresses like he lives in a manor. Oh man, I hope he’s on one of those reality shows where a rich socialite lives like a normal human. That would open up so many possibilities to mess with him.”

“You’re not going to convince him of anything he doesn’t want to believe. He’s too paranoid and suspicious. Yesterday he told me that he thought Kylie Jenner was appropriating his style.”

“I love a challenge.”

Patrick raises an eyebrow.

“Do you?”

“Ok, no, I don’t. But this seems more fun than our homework.”

“Well, you’re welcome to try.”

“Can I try...tonight? It’s just that my roommate is hosting this _Toddlers & Tiaras_-themed party and I would really love it if there were other people there not wearing pink ballgowns.”

“Are you messing with _me_ now, or…?”

“I wish. She binge-watches trashy reality TV everyday. I’m gradually losing my mind.”

“Wow. Ok, well I don’t think David’s huge on parties, or trashy TV, or toddlers. But…I’ll try.”

 

When Patrick gets back to their room, David is sitting at his desk with pens and paper out.

“Hey, what’s the name of the girl you were with? Short, black hair, dresses like the embodiment of 90s angst? I need to write her a thank-you note…Do people here write thank-you notes?”

“Uh, it’s Stevie, but…no. There is a party at her place tonight, if you want to thank her in person.”

“What kind of party?”

“Just like a regular, normal party.”

“Like a wine and cheese night, or…?”

“Well, I’m pretty sure there will be wine. And you bought an entire cheese wheel this morning so you could just…bring that.”

“Mmkay, well it’s a personal cheese wheel, but I guess…I could come.”

“Great. You’re gonna love it.”


	4. Chapter 4

“Oh God.”

Patrick nudges David and points to one of the fluorescent pink monstrosities surrounding them.

“So is _that_ Givenchy?” he asks innocently, earning a glare.

A human-shaped tulle explosion swans over and plonks 2 plastic tiaras on their heads before moving on to her next victims.

Patrick looks at David. “You look very…you,”.

“Well you look like a dad who forgot to look in the mirror before work.”

“Oh my God, you guys came,” slurs Stevie, coming over with a round of shots, “take these, you will need them.” Her tiara is slightly lopsided at this point.

“Hi Stevie, thanks for the invite and your gold-star navigational skills. I think we have to go now, though, so-”

“Whoa,” says Patrick, very aware that if they leave now, he’ll be the one cooking dinner, “let’s check out the catering at least.”

“…Is there cake?”

“Yes! There are cakes. Plural. Andrea’s bringing them out in a minute,” says Stevie

David gravitates towards the snack table.

“Ok,” he says, holding up a tiny pastel macaroon with a tiara emblazoned on it, “the food is surprisingly classy.”

“Mm,” says Stevie, “so is the vodka. I recommend it.”

“Oh my God. I spoke too soon,” says David, staring at the platter being brought out.

Four identical Kelly Dolls with intricate updos and technicolour cake-skirts face them.

“They’re staring into my soul,” whispers David, “nope. Nope nope nope nope nope. I am not eating child-cake.” He backs into Patrick, who puts a hand on his shoulder to steady him.

When a nylon hair falls onto the frosting even Patrick starts to feel queasy.

“I wanna thank you all for coming!” says Andrea, “and I wanna thank my roommate Stevie for helping with the theme and preparation.”

“You did this?” asks David.

“No!” says Stevie, looking affronted, “She was oscillating between _Toddlers & Tiaras _or _16 & Pregnant_. I thought this was the lesser of two evils.  And now that I know a stock of Kelly Dolls was gonna be involved, I’m inclined to think I made the right call.”

“Ok, well, I’m off,” says David.

“Wait, please, take me with you,” Stevie whispers loudly.

“Ok,” says Patrick, “why don’t we _all_ go to O’Callaghan’s? Alcohol-induced memory loss seems like the order of the day.”

“Fine. You’re paying for the first round though,” David says, motioning to Stevie. “Consider it emotional reparations.”

“Deal.”

 

They’re the only people in the bar on a Monday night. David orders the most expensive cocktail on the menu. Stevie can’t decide if he’s doing it out of spite or reflex. In case it’s spite, she decides an apology might help her wallet out.

“Sorry for inviting you both to the most traumatising party ever.”

“Well, it wasn’t the most traumatising,” David admits, “let’s just say, if my sister invites you to party with Hanson, do not accept the offer.”

Two pairs of eyes turn to him.

“What? They’re a lot more debauched than they seem.”

“Ok,” says Stevie, throwing in the towel on the whole politeness thing, “What’s your story?”

“Well, they own a cabin in the woods which-”

“Not the Hanson story. Your story. You have celebrity acquaintances, a wardrobe that costs more than my tuition, and I’ve heard reports that you don’t know how to independently fry an egg-”

David glares at Patrick who is studying his cider.

“-and yet you’re at a university whose motto is ‘Everyone loves an underdog’.”

“…It has a really good arts program.”

 “Bullshit.”

 “It has a really affordable arts program.”

“Look at that,” attempts Patrick, pointing to a poster on the wall, “they do trivia here on Thursdays…”

“So you’re not rich?” interrupts Stevie.

“Not _anymore_.”

Stevie lifts an eyebrow. David gets the impression that the most painless way out of this is just to spill.

“Ugh. Ok. Remember Rose Video? Well, that was us, and a business manager who managed to screw us out of everything we owned. So now I’m at a university where most of the graduates go on to be janitors and people host parties with haunted dolls.”

Stevie looks a little surprised and quite sheepish. Patrick does not look surprised at all. Which, David thinks, is quite unfair, especially when he’d built it up to be such a big deal in his head.

“Shit,” says Stevie, “well, welcome to the ranks of broke students.” She raises her glass.

“Thanks,” says David, clinking it, “ _really_ enjoying it so far.”

“You know,” says Stevie, “this town isn’t always…horrible. I mean don’t get me wrong, it’s a dump. But there’s a lake with a nice view of the sunset, and an arcade game pizza parlour that always smells like pepperoni. Patrick and I can show you round the places you go when you’re sick of your taste and dignity being chipped away.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“It’ll be fun,” says Patrick.

“Ok,” says David, “well…thanks.” He briefly considers whether these are his first actual friends.

Very briefly, up until the point where Stevie opens her mouth again.

“I should probably head back before Andrea starts wondering if one of the dolls kidnapped me. I do need an excuse for missing an hour of her party though, and hook-ups are the only thing she holds sacred, so I may need to tell her I was sleeping with one of you.”

“I don’t think you _need_ to do that,” says David.

“Thank you for volunteering.”

“I’m fairly certain I didn’t.”

“Walking away,” says Stevie, “can’t hear.”

 

“What type of person finds a date at a _Toddlers & Tiaras_ party? That’s gonna be me now.”

“Your soaring social stock is really gonna plummet,” says Patrick.

“Mm. Speaking of plummets…when did you stop working at Rose Video, exactly?”

“Um. Well I didn’t stop working so much as they ran out of money to pay me.”

So Patrick knows, has known since the day he met Moira, and has probably been trying to show David he knows every time he mentions working there. It makes David feel incredibly dim-witted that he never realised and a little self-obsessed for never asking but also, maybe just a tiny bit pleased. He doesn’t know how to say any of this, so opts for:

“Nothing personal, you know, just…bankruptcy.”

“Mm,” says Patrick, “well I was on a mission to get back the twelve dollars I’m owed in wages but…I guess I could let it slide.”

“Please tell me you stole a video at least.”

“Unfortunately I didn’t have a bad influence in my life back then.”

“You also didn’t have someone with good taste in movies, so it’s probably for the best.”

“There’s a parallel universe Patrick out there with a shelf full of purloined romcoms from the last century.”

“Mm. Like a subpar sequel to _Sliding Doors_.”

Patrick looks at him blankly.

“Oh my God, really? We’re adding that to the list.”

“Eventually we are going to watch a movie of my choice, right?”

“Sure. Eventually.”


	5. Chapter 5

David feels like an education in 90s romcoms should be enough of a gift for a lifetime. But experiences had taught him that sometimes more edible bribery was required.

“Who feels like chocolate donuts?” he asks, dropping a bag dramatically on the dining table.

 “I, for one, would love this spontaneous gift with no ulterior motive,” says Patrick, lying on his bunk.

“It’s your lucky day then. On an unrelated note, here’s a fun fact about me: I’ve never used a laundromat before. I also own a lot of expertly-made items of clothing which, ironically, are holding together my emotional stability by a thread. I would love not to destroy these clothes.”

“Ok, I see where you’re going with this, and I’m happy to help, but I can’t promise they won’t get destroyed. I don’t have a lot of experience in working with possum fur.”

“You’re saying I should ask one of the dozens of friends I’ve made here who do have expertise in specialty fibres?”

“Point taken.”

 

Stevie arrives at the laundromat to pick up her clothes, only to find David crouching in front of the washing machine, looking at the duochrome swirl with trepidation. Patrick is leaning contentedly against the bench, eating a chocolate donut.

“So you guys are…torturing a zebra?”

“Washing David’s sweaters.”

“Mm. Seems like a two-person job.”

“Well, technically I’m teaching David how to wash sweaters.”

“Oh.” Stevie’s eyes light up. “Did you tell him how it’s customary to pat the washing machine and say ‘That’ll do old boy’ when a load is finished?”

 “I must’ve skipped that.”

“Patrick. You know how offended these small-town types get when someone doesn’t follow the traditions.”

“You’re right. Huge oversight on my part.”

“Ok,” says David, entirely unconvinced, “I’m in pre-mourning, so if you two could just be less jovial, that’d be great.”

“It’s good to know you have so much faith in Patrick’s teaching abilities. And do you really think I’m _jovial_? Words hurt, David.”

David stands up and gestures toward Patrick. “Look, can he throw together a passably stylish outfit? Sure. Do I trust him with Givenchy? No.”

Patrick has grown adept at extracting the compliments from David’s backhanded insults. Like finding a contact lens in plush carpeting, it requires a lot of time, patience, energy and skill, but is ultimately pretty satisfying.

He dramatically holds a hand to his heart. “You think I’m stylish?”

“I don’t think I said that exactly. Besides, someone in my class wore the same Donald Duck pyjamas five days running, so my standards have been forcibly lowered.”

“What I’m hearing is that I’m more stylish than Donald Duck. The guy who could pull off a shirt with no pants.”

“To be clear, the world is full of better style icons than you two, and Donald Duck is one of them. Were you one of the founders of nautical fashion?”

“So,” says Stevie, “what’s your favourite element of Patrick’s style? Is it the long-sleeve shirts, or the jeans, or the button-ups, or…the long-sleeve shirts, or the jeans or the button-ups?

 “I don’t know, there’s so much variation in how he wears them. Will he button up the button-ups? Will he roll up the sleeves? Once I even saw him consider leaving a collared shirt untucked. Granted, he decided against it, but imagine the waves it _could_ _’ve_ caused.”

“Maybe you should reconsider untucked,” says Stevie, “you know, since you’ve been mistaken for a professor already.”

“Oh my God,” says David, looking between Stevie and Patrick, “when did this happen?”

Patrick rolls his eyes.

“I was just waiting outside the lecture hall the other day and some student came up and asked me if there would be a mid-term. Can we steer back to making fun of David?”

 

At that moment, the washing machine starts to loudly play an 8-bit rendition of Yankee Doodle to indicate it’s done. Unfortunately, the electronics involved are old enough that the jingle has started to take on the timbre of a funeral march. David may reflexively grab Patrick’s sleeve in a moment of panic. He lets go, studiously avoiding eye contact as he goes to the washing machine.

“There’s still one donut,” Patrick offers, “if it is bad news.”

“If it isn’t bad news, can I have it?” asks Stevie.

“Oh my God,” says David, holding a sweater aloft like a baby Simba, ‘it’s ok.” He pulls out the rest of the sweaters, all unharmed.

Patrick grins. He’s not sure when he got invested in this. Maybe he’s started getting accustomed to fluffy sweaters. Or maybe living with David just does strange things to one’s priorities.

“Told you I could do it.”

“Well, no, you told me that you probably couldn’t do it.  But you did. So, uh, thank you.”

“No problem. As long as you refer to me as ‘resident fashion expert, Patrick Brewer’ from now on.”

“Mm, not happening. ‘Resident professor’ I can do.”

“Wow,” says Stevie, “it’s been a rewarding day, huh? But sometimes giving can be it’s own reward-”

“You can have the donut,” says David.

“Thanks. See you later,” she says, swiping the donut, getting her clothes from the dryer and leaving.

 

Patrick pauses and frowns for a second.

“…How long do you think the donut was her endgame for?”

“From about 3 seconds after she walked in, I’m guessing.”

“Huh. The determination is weirdly…”

“Inspirational? Yeah.”

“C,mon. Unless you want to brave the dryer, we have to figure out how to lay out 16 sweaters in a tiny dorm room.”

 

They end up sitting on the bottom bunk, hanging a lot of them off the bedframe.

“Brings back memories, huh? Although the bedforts I made as a kid were not this soggy,” says Patrick.

“Oh, yeah I never did that.”

“What?” Patrick looks vaguely appalled.

“I had a canopy bed. It’s basically like a bedfort without the manual labour.”

“You had a canopy bed? As a child? Like some kind of tiny duke?”

“Ok,” says David, frowning, “It’s a bed with curtains. Let’s not get hysterical.”

Patrick can’t help but smile at that.

David, irony-blind, frowns some more.

“Wait there,” says Patrick, getting up. When he comes back, he’s holding his laptop and a block of chocolate.

“…What’s happening?”

“We have to watch movies in a bedfort. Or else never having a proper childhood is gonna be one of those things you regret on your deathbed.”

“…Ok. But we’re watching _Sliding Doors_. Cross off one of _your_ deathbed regrets.”

“Deal.”

David curls up, steals Patrick’s pillow and clutches it to his chest. He reminds Patrick of a squirrel with an acorn.

Patrick sets up the movie and breaks the chocolate block. He offers half to David.

“Oh, we’re having an entire block?”

“Yeah. Why, do you want less?”

“Nope. No, this is good.”

 


	6. Chapter 6

Maybe a movie about missed opportunities was not the best choice at this point in David’s life.

He wakes up in the middle of the night and can’t focus on much except how close the ceiling feels. He wonders if he’ll have to spend the rest of his life in rooms that make him feel like he’s being crushed, long after uni’s over and Patrick’s gone. He tries to breathe deeply and realises how fast his breaths are coming, the way his heart feels like maybe it’s coming undone, like it was never supposed to beat this quickly and maybe the pressure could rend it. He needs to get out. He climbs down the ladder, tries to get properly dressed by moonlight, and knocks over a pile of textbooks in the process.

The lamp by the bed turns on and Patrick looks at him, confused.

“What are you doing?” he asks, voice gluggy with sleep.

David crosses his arms, tries to push his heart down.

“Um. Going for a walk?”

Patrick looks over at his alarm clock. “It’s 3am.”

“Mm. Well, earlybird gets the worm.”

_That_ is enough to have Patrick sitting straight up in bed, looking worried.

“David. What’s going on?”

 “It’s just claustrophobic in here. I need air.”

“Ok.” Patrick grabs a parka and starts slipping on his shoes.

“What are you doing?”

“This town is not the most salubrious, even in the daylight hours. And if you go missing they might replace you with someone who keeps mouldy food in the fridge or something.”

David frowns. “I think I’m gonna be ok. Get some sleep.”

Patrick ignores him and walks over to the door, waiting expectantly.

“I…ok.”

 

On their second circuit around the tiny campus, Patrick asks “Is this actually helping?”

“No. Why, do you know an oceanside vista nearby?”

“C’mere,” says Patrick, dragging him to the centre of the quad and sitting down.

David joins him.

“There’s a lot more room if you look up.” Patrick lies back.

“Um,” says David, looking between his sweater and the grass.

Patrick rolls his eyes and lays his parka down next to him.

“Thanks” says David, aiming for maximum sweater coverage. The parka smells of Patrick’s cologne, which David hates. It’s some generic, inoffensive brand that’s worn by a lot of people. Whenever David smells it, he expects Patrick, and half the time he gets someone else.

He looks up. One benefit of living in a backwards caveman town – you can actually see the stars. Patrick’s not wrong. It definitely feels like there’s room for him here. But he would still really like a distraction.

“So,” he asks playfully, “are you going to give me an astronomy lesson, or…?”

“Mm,” says Patrick, “see this one right here?” He points up.

They’re close enough that David can feel his breath ghost across his ear.

“That’s the moon.”

 “Ah…And it’s prime time for werewolves.”

Patrick nudges his arm against David’s.

“I guess arts degrees _do_ teach you useful skills.”

“Mm. Nothing as fun as balance sheets though,” says David.

David’s eyes move from Patrick’s smile to the tiny goosebumps starting to appear on his neck. He feels a bit guilty for taking the parka. And for noticing too many things, some of them skirting the edge of platonic.

David locks his eyes back on the sky.

“Are werewolves what you were concerned about when you said this town wasn’t salubrious?”

“David, if we get attacked by werewolves, my presence is not gonna be much protection. Although I think I probably watched enough _Buffy_ to handle a vampire.”

David should definitely stop picturing Patrick protecting him. It’s just a little difficult because he’s not really used to being defended. Alexis did once throw a stiletto at a magpie that was attacking him, but it hit him in the shoulder, so he doesn’t really count that. Patrick is protective because he’s basically Snow White, and David is just a bird with a broken wing to him, and David’s so used to ulterior motives and unused to kindness that he thinks his feelings are something they’re not. Tomorrow they’ll go back to being caustic to each other, and he’ll stop feeling whatever this is.

“…David?” says Patrick, eyes wide, all earnest and concerned, and David realises that Patrick actually does know more about astronomy than where to spot the moon, and has been spouting off facts about planets and constellations while, David, ironically, has been spaced out.

David attempts to give a reassuring smile, and, because he really needs Patrick to stop looking at him like that, asks “Which planets can we see?”

Patrick points out Mars. David would really love to be there right now, nothing but room and no-one to be kind and confusing. Although, knowing David’s talent for unrequited crushes, he’s pretty sure he would find a way to fall for a microbe or something.

Patrick stifles a yawn and David feels guilty again.

“Let’s go back.”

“Ok,” says Patrick, “Feeling better?”

David, who’s never been very good at lying, makes a vague noise of affirmation.

 

Lying back in his bunk, still painfully conscious of his heart and breathing, trying to convince himself that he’s not realising a hundred new things about Patrick every minute, David would not say he feels better. Still, at least he’s stopped thinking about the ceilings.


	7. Chapter 7

After unsuccessfully searching for a ‘sorry-for-waking-you-at-3am-with-my-breakdown’ card, David settles for buying Patrick a drink. If, in the process, he can find someone who can take his mind off his totally-off-limits, way-too-self-sacrificing roommate, then all the better.

 

“Obviously, I can only afford one drink for each of us, so, you know, pick wisely-and you’re ordering cider. Great. Really exciting choice.”

David scans the bar only to be met with immediate regret.

“Oh God,” he says, trying to lower his head below Patrick’s shoulder, “hide me.”

“What? How would I hide you?”

“David. It’s been a while.”

David tries to raise his head up as naturally as possible. Which, as it turns out, is not very naturally.

“Hi Sebastien.”

Patrick looks over at the tall, besweatered man walking over to them. David had told him things about Sebastien, none of them good.

“Hi,” he says, once it’s clear he’s not getting an introduction, “Patrick.” He extends his hand.

“Oh, I don’t _do_ social contracts.”

“…Sure.”

“So what are you doing here?” asks David.

“I’m here for a couple months, taking photographs for my “Small Town, Smaller Aspirations” exhibit.”

He pauses when he spots a man drunkenly playing foosball by himself in the corner of the bar.

“Haunting,” he whispers, snapping a picture, then turning back to David and Patrick.

“David, I know things didn’t end on the best of terms between us. But I just ordered a selection of body paints for my studio. And I think it would be really healthy for us to express those feelings through art.”

_Seriously_ , thinks Patrick, _right in front of my cider_?

“Mm,” says David, “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

“Why not just let ourselves be free? Unless-” he glances to Patrick, “-you’re spoken for?”

Patrick waits for David to say something, that it’s none of Sebastien’s business, that it makes no difference whether he’s spoken for or not, that he doesn’t want to be a part of Sebastien’s weird plans to graffiti his exes. Or, even to blatantly lie and say he’s seeing someone. He waits. And waits. And David flounders.

_Fuck it_ , he thinks, putting his hand on the ripped knee of David’s jeans.

“David actually _does_ do social contracts.”

Patrick thought that David could not possibly get more tense. He was wrong.

“Ah,” says Sebastien, “well, here’s my business card. If either of you decide you want to throw off the shackles of monogamy and experience true freedom. We should all aspire to live artistically.” Patrick stares as he hands them both metre-long film strips with his details painted on.

 

“Sorry,” says Patrick, taking his hand away once Sebastien’s out of sight, “too much?”

“No,” says David, not quite looking him in the eye, “that was nice. Nice of you, I mean, not _nice_ …I’m getting a drink. Do you want another drink?”

“Sure,” Patrick says, although for some reason he’s already feeling a buzz.

David takes about two steps then turns back to him.

“So I don’t actually have any more money.”

“…Why don’t I buy the drinks?”

“If you insist.”


	8. Chapter 8

David thinks he might never get used to being broke. The bribery budget has been hit especially hard, and, standing here in Stevie’s kitchen, David’s starting to realise that he’s not sure how to ask for a favour without offering compensation.

 

“Hey,” he attempts, “remember when I gave you that chocolate donut?”

“What are you talking about?” asks Stevie.

“Laundry day.”

“That was _weeks_ ago.”

“Mm. It was a good donut though, right?”

“I really hope this isn’t your lead-in to asking me for a favour.”

 “…Let’s backtrack. Have I ever told you what a great friend you are?”

“What do you want?”

“We’re studying portraiture. And I need a subject. And I thought, who’s the most expressive, dynamic, vivacious person I know?”

“…Patrick?”

“…Ok. But after that…”

Stevie hesitates. “I mean, as the only other person you know here-”

“Not true. Sebastien’s in town. So, 3, technically.”

“Oh. Then I guess Sebastien?”

“Do _you_ want to be my subject?” asks David, with his last thread of patience.

“Sorry, I don’t think that staying still for hours is a good idea. My doctor says that my facial muscles are already dangerously atrophied from underuse.”

“Ok, first off, you’re allowed to move. Secondly, you couldn’t have come up with that lie like, half an hour ago instead of dragging this process out as long as possible?”

“Just being my vivacious self,” says Stevie with a sweet smile. “Maybe you should ask Patrick.”

“He can’t do it. You’re my only hope.”

“Oh, why can’t he do it?”

“He…baseball.”

“He baseball? All the time?”

“…Ok, so I didn’t ask him.”

“Why?” asks Stevie, raising an eyebrow, “is it life drawing?”

“K, I’m gonna leave now,” says David, walking towards the door. “Thanks for this incredibly unhelpful conversation. Self-portraiture it is, I guess.”

“Well, you are the most expressive person I know. And like, 14th most vivacious. Plus you look in mirrors a _lot_. It sounds kinda perfect for you, actually. You know, if Patrick’s too busy. With his constant baseballing.”

“Ok,” says David, closing the door on her, “bye.”

 


	9. Chapter 9

Sometimes it seems like Patrick _is_ constantly baseballing. Normally they eat dinner together in the main hall, but practice is running late for the second time that week, so Stevie and David have started without him.

 

David picks up a fork, takes a bite of the mac and cheese brick, and puts his fork back down.

“Ok. I’m waiting for the snickerdoodles.”

“…What are you talking about?” asks Stevie.

“Patrick brought them back from practice yesterday. I guess his coach gives them out.”

“Ok,” says Stevie, “I can guarantee that his coach his not giving out a bunch of cookies to his team. He’s probably just buying them for you?”

“I don’t think so…They’re probably for like-” he searches for the fitness terminology- “carbo-loading?”

“Sure,” says Stevie, dubiously.

“Ok, what does that mean?”

“It means a cute boy is buying you snickerdoodles right now, and you are very defensive.”

“Ok,” says David, “whatever you’re implying-”

“Oh, was it not clear? I was implying that you should ask him out, preferably before I turn 80 because I don’t wanna be a wingwoman forever.”

“He’s just a friend.”

“That’s unfortunate. Because it seems like he’s holding a candle for you.”

“Right. Mid-range denim is practically writing sonnets.”

“Is that your kink? Should I tell him to take a creative writing course next semester?”

David narrows his eyes. “Look, even I hypothetically had a crush on him, which I don’t, I’m not going to risk one of my two friendships and end up rooming with an asshole frat boy who leaves underwear on the couch.”

“…Wouldn’t a frat boy be living in a frat?”

“Frat is a state of mind, Stevie. And it’s _everywhere_.”

“Right. But Patrick’s not going to kick you out. Even if he doesn’t feel the same way. And I’m trying really hard to think of a romance movie to inspire you, but I haven’t watched any in the last 10 years so it’s kinda difficult. _Titanic_? Be your own _Titanic_.”

“Being stuck in the icy waters of rejection because someone doesn’t want to share a door with me is exactly what I’m trying to avoid.”

“Ok, bad example. But what’s your other option. Harbour a crush forever?”

And, because David is living in his own personal hellscape, _that_ is when he spots Patrick walking over.

“Seems I arrived at a climactic moment,” he says putting his yellow tray on the table and sliding into the booth next to Stevie.

David glares at her.

“Right. Well, David has a thing for his…art history professor?”

Patrick raises an eyebrow.

“The 70-year-old?”

Stevie really doesn’t think she deserves the look David is giving her, especially when she just came up with a cover for him.

“…Yup,” says David, resigning himself to the situation, “the 70-year-old.”

“Ah,” says Patrick, digging in to his pasta.

“Really? That’s how easily you’re going to accept that I have a crush on a geriatric?”

“To be honest,” says Patrick, “I was kinda expecting this ever since she called your essay ‘incandescent’.”

“She did? Definitely requited then,” says Stevie, shoving David with her elbow. “Maybe she wants you to pose for the Statue of David 2.0.”

“Mrs Brooks is a sweet old lady, and I will not see her name tarnished by you two perverts.”

“You’re the one that wants her cookie. Speaking of, Patrick, did you bring back any snickerdoodles? David would also settle for those cookies.”

David would also settle for Stevie being swallowed up by the earth right about now.

Patrick, who was not expecting that segue, chokes on his macaroni for a second.

“Um. By the time practice finished the store was closed. Sorry.”

“Ah. So they’re store-bought.” says Stevie pointedly.

“Yes…?” says Patrick, wondering why Stevie was suddenly sounding like a judgey suburban housewife.

“David thought that maybe your coach was handing them out.”

Patrick looks at David with disbelief.

“…Did you think that people only played sport because they were being bribed with food?”

“I thought it was a weird sports diet. But frankly, bribery would also make a lot of sense to me.”

“Course it would,” says Patrick, looking at David fondly. “But no, our coach is not that nice. They’re from Rosalita’s Bakery. I saw them in the window when I was walking past, and you know, you said your chef used to make them…”

“Oh. Well, thank you,” says David, “they _are_ very delicious.”

 

Stevie decides to seize the moment while David is thrown off.

“Hey Patrick, has David asked you about his portrait thing yet?”

“No,” says David, turning to glare at Stevie, “I haven’t. Like I _told_ you, I’m thinking of doing a self-portrait, so-”

“So,” says Stevie, unperturbed, “David has a portraiture assignment and he only knows two people here-”

“ _Three_.”

“-and _I_ can’t do it, so he was thinking that maybe you could. I mean, he _could_ ask Sebastien-”

Patrick doesn’t need more encouragement.


	10. Chapter 10

Frankly, David is shocked at his own professionalism. So maybe he got stuck on Patrick’s smile for a few seconds longer than necessary. But apart from that, sketching Patrick has involved minimal backslides into fantasy and no freakouts. David is intensely thankful for the benzo-like effect sketching has on him.

Patrick feels ok at first. They’re talking while David’s eyes flick over his face, sketching the outlines, and it’s almost like having a normal conversation with an extremely distracted person. Basically, like having a conversation with David.

Then David starts focussing on each feature, and Patrick’s never felt more self-conscious. He spends a worrying amount of time sketching his ears, and for a moment Patrick’s back in primary school, wondering if he should tape them back. Then David’s eyes are dragging across his nose, his mouth, his clavicle. Sometimes, when David is really concentrating, he’ll unceremoniously shush Patrick mid-sentence. It throws him off enough that he acquiesces without even making a snarky remark. But it leaves him with nothing to do except look at David looking at him. Patrick can feel the weight of his gaze, and he wonders how anyone in history has managed to sit for a portrait without combusting. David has dragged him to enough art galleries for him to know that portrait subjects generally looked dignified. Or at least composed. Maybe they were all secretly sweating under their ruffles.

It’s worth it in the end though, when David shows him the finished product and Patrick’s reminded of how talented David really is. It’s also flattering. Really flattering. Even if the ears are a little big.

“Wow. Is it weird to want to hang up a portrait of myself?”

“Yes,” says David, trying to hide a smile, “definitely. You know, Sebastien used to cover his walls with his own massive headshots.”

“Just be grateful he didn’t use the same idea for his business cards.”

He’s met with a grin.

David’s a bit of a Byronic hero, all arched brows, high cheekbones and pouting lips. So smiles really shouldn’t suit him. But they really, really do. Everything about David is so planned and prepared that the only way to make him relax is to catch him off guard.

Like skipping stones and watching the surface tension break.


	11. Chapter 11

Sebastien doesn’t come up again until a few weeks later.

Andrea’s on a date, so Stevie’s seized the opportunity to invite David and Patrick over. David brings a choice of 8 romcoms, just so he can insist that they picked the movie, and he doesn’t have to put a coin in the Stubbornness Jar. Stevie and Patrick choose at random. David curls up in the armchair,  insisting that Stevie and Patrick take the couch so that their first viewing is the full panoramic experience.

 

Patrick tries to focus, he really does, but whenever David shifts his head to the left to follow the action, Patrick sees it. A lilac stripe, behind the shell of his ear.

“David.”

“What?” David pauses the movie, irritated. “She’s _just_ about to realise she’s in love.”

“You just have something-” he motions towards the stripe.

“Eww.” David grabs a tissue and rubs at it, disgust turning to sheepish realisation as it comes away purple.

And with that look, Patrick is certain. “No. Seriously?”

“What?” Stevie is looking confusedly between the two of them.

“David’s decided to be Sebastien’s _canvas_.”

 “Really?” asks Stevie. “Didn’t he cheat on you with your step-cousin? Rekindling that doesn’t seem like a good idea.”

“You _told_ him it wasn’t a good idea,” adds Patrick.

“I changed my mind,” says David, now on the defensive, “I’m not going to catch feelings like I did in high school. We have a mutually beneficial, entirely unsentimental agreement. Like a business pact.”

“Wow,” says Stevie “sounds very sexy.”

“You know business pacts usually require a mutual respect. _If_ they’re gonna work out,” says Patrick.

“We have that,” says David, to two disbelieving faces.

 “…Didn’t he leave in the middle of an panic attack so because he wanted to photograph some pigeons?” asks Patrick.

“Waterfowl.” corrects David. “And the light was really catching their feathers.”

“Didn’t he get super high, paint one of your sweaters, and tell you to ‘embrace chaos’?” asks Stevie. “Ooh, and there was the time he made your childhood teddy bears into a fur coat. I mean, _I_ respect the determination and ingenuity involved in being a Cruella, but-”

“Ok, I tell you people _way_ too much about my life.” says David. “And fine, maybe there’s _not_ mutual respect. And maybe he’s not the most selfless person in the world. But, _shocking_ as it may seem, people have said the same thing about me. Which is why this is gonna work. We can use each other without things getting messy.”

“Bullshit,” says Patrick, “maybe you’re a little…oblivious sometimes, but you care about people. And it makes you invested in relationships even when they’re not worth it. Sebastien talks about peace and love and freedom and art all the time to hide the fact that he doesn’t have any actual principles. He’s like a…like a morally bankrupt Care Bear.” Patrick looks to Stevie for support.

“He’s an asshole,” Stevie concludes.

“Ok,” says David, “really appreciating the expert relationship advice from my single friends. But, seeing as how neither of you are actually my keeper, can we just move on, and watch the movie?”

“Fine,” says Stevie, “just keep him away from reflective pools.”

David rolls his eyes and presses play.

 

They watch the rest of the movie, David getting increasingly annoyed that Patrick thinks he needs to critique his own replacement, as if it wasn’t already obvious that he’s subpar; Patrick fixating on the fact that they spend 6 months seeing David dressed like a grey day and Sebastien has him in colour within weeks; and Stevie, resenting the fact that her friends are idiots.


	12. Chapter 12

_Cerulean, softening his eyes. Silver for those knife-like cheekbones. Lilac, dripping down his neck, muddying the turquoise on his arms and chest. A hand dipped in fiery orange over his heart. Highlighting each finger, each rib, each dimple with gold. The movement of his breaths, calmer, slower, deeper than usual. Watching through his lashes. Rainbow flecks across his stomach, since Patrick doubts he_ _’d be able to resist flicking the paintbrush at him. And a droning sound, coming from_ _…?_

 

His alarm. Patrick wakes up, sits straight up in bed, and just breathes for a second. Decides he needs a few more seconds. And a few more.

The object of Patrick’s dream decides he needs more sleep, and lobs a tin of lip balm at the alarm, which promptly cracks, shuts up, and tumbles onto the floor.

It’s ridiculous, and Patrick thinks that maybe a crack in the gravitas is what he needed, because for a moment he feels sure that everything is going to be ok.

David hangs his head over the railing, strands of hair all over the place.

“Are you sick? Because if you’re not sick and you’ve _just_ decided not to go to class, after waking me up at 7am, I swear-”

“I’m up,” says Patrick, holding his hands up in surrender and getting out of bed. He gets ready, bubbling over with energy, rethinking every interaction he’s had with David over the past 6 months, wondering if he needs to rethink every interaction of his life. He hums as an outlet, remembers the last time, and stops humming in time to see David brandishing a pillow, looking fiery.

“You’re a slow learner,” he says.

And Patrick can’t really argue with that.


	13. Chapter 13

David is much more amenable at sunset than sunrise. Especially with the contents of a picnic in his stomach. 

Stevie had left already, despite it being her idea to visit the lake.

“Why does she do this every time?” asks David. “I’ve seen her social calendar, it’s not exactly full.”

Patrick’s starting to get a pretty good idea of why.

“Don’t know. But for some reason I imagine her spending her spare time making friends with stray cats.”

David gives him the first smile of the last few days.

“…That checks out.”

Patrick thinks he might be forgiven already. Still, some things needed to be said.

 “I’m sorry. I overreacted to the whole…Sebastien thing. I mean I still don’t think he’s good for you-”

“Really? I had no idea.”

Patrick gives him a sheepish smile. He looks towards the lake, depths placidly waiting for someone to skid a stone over the surface.

“But it was partly selfish. I was…jealous.”

Patrick sneaks a glance at David, trying to decipher what he’s feeling. What he’s feeling is, very clearly, confusion.

 “You and Sebastien…?”

“Jesus,” says Patrick, “No. Not if we were the last two people on earth.”

 “Oh. Then why- _Oh_.”

 “You, David.”

The hopeful trepidation he’s feeling must show, because suddenly David’s hand is there, warm against his cheek.

He pulls Patrick in gently, like he still isn’t certain that this is what Patrick wants.

Patrick isn’t 100% either, until he feels David’s lips, feather-light against his, his thumb brushing ever so slightly across his stubble, and suddenly he’s acutely aware of what he’s been missing all this time.

David pulls back, and Patrick can see the pearlescent rose, lilac and dusky orange rays of the sunset painted across his face. He’s holding back the edges of his smile, and Patrick needs, more than ever, to show him he doesn’t have to.

So he leans in again.

**Author's Note:**

> Canada and I are in different hemispheres, so I'm sure the Canadian education system has been/will be wildly misrepresented.


End file.
